Having made a strategic solo foray and grabbed "Fastpass" tickets to Space Mountain, which requires returning to the ride in a mere three and a half hours time, I'm waiting for the family and watching one of those interminably self-congratulatory Disney parades that snake through the Magic Kingdom twice a day. On a float in front of me, Mr. Incredible has a wardrobe malfunction, and a well-dressed minder wearing an earpiece materializes out of nowhere like a Secret Service agent and tucks the wayward sleeves back into the long black gauntlets. If the strongest man in the world can't even put his gloves on, what hope do I have? It makes me feel better about my intention of wimping out of Space Mountain.
The afternoon parade is called "Celebrate a Dream Come True." Surely Disney must be running out of these cloyingly optimistic sentiments by now?
Later, on the crowded monorail from the Magic Kingdom to the transportation center, a middle-aged, single man leans toward a group of Australian ladies he's been listening to for a while and asks: "So what part of Italy are you girls from?"